Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Then off.
The distinctive clink of glass against stone countertop.
Perfume, perhaps?
Some rustling.
Bored, I plop down on her bed, mindful not to make myself too comfortable until she comes back to claim her spot—it’s the least I can do, considering it’s her room, small as it may be.
The bathroom door opens, and she clicks off its light.
She rounds the corner, lifting her arms to proclaim “Well. Here I am.”
Here she is indeed.
To say that Harlow is different than any other female I’ve ever met would be an understatement—if you don’t count my mother and cousins, of course. I might be from Ohio, but since I was drafted straight out of college into the NFL, it’s been years since I’ve encountered anyone this down to earth.
No plastic on this woman.
No Botox.
No cosmetic surgeries, at least none I can see.
Not that it would matter if she did. Just stating the fact that I tend to spend my time surrounded by beautiful women who will not show their face in public unless it’s caked with makeup.
And Harlow isn’t like that.
Fresh face.
Clean skin.
She’s glowing.
Or red from embarrassment? Hard to tell.
“I feel like we’re about to have an old-school pajama party, and I’m kind of excited,” she declares, throwing her arms up and laughing. “Thanks for waiting for me to wash my face.”
I remove my cap, tossing it casually to the bedside table, and run my hand through my hair, finger combing it. The sides are shaved, but the top is a thick, wavy mess that my mother is constantly begging me to cut off and make tidy.
Harlow’s eyes get wide at the sight of me with no hat on.
“What?” Why is she looking at me that way?
She tips her head back and laughs.
I frown. “I don’t get it—what’s so funny?”
“Nothing’s funny,” she says. “It’s just—thank God you have hair.”
That makes no sense.
“What do you mean, thank God you have hair?” I’m still frowning. “Why wouldn’t I have hair?”
“I’ve only ever seen you with a hat on. I thought maybe you were bald. No offense.”
Bald.
I blink at her. “Are you being serious? You thought I was bald?”
She shrugs. “I wasn’t sure, in all honesty.”
I flop back on the mattress, talking up at the ceiling. If I needed any more proof that Harlow has no idea about my true identity, this is it.
“Oh my God, Harlow, you’re killing me.”
“What!” She laughs again, sidling up to the bed, hip bumping the mattress, looking down at me. “My friends had me convinced you might be hatfishing me. That’s a thing now, you know.”
No. I didn’t know.
“Hatfishing?” My face scrunches up as if I’ve swallowed a lemon. “I have no idea what the hell that is. Is that an online-dating thing?”
She nods. “Simply put, it’s when a guy wears a hat so you have no way of knowing whether he’s bald or not.”
“Um. This is what women think about when they see a man with a hat on a dating app?”
“Sure, on dating apps. And I might have mentioned your ball cap to my friends.”
“Wait.” My brows raise into my hairline. “You’ve mentioned me to your friends?”
Nice.
Harlow rolls her pretty eyes toward the ceiling. “Yes, of course I told them about you. I’m in a strange city and met some random dude in Central Park—obviously I’m going to tell my friends about it.”
“What exactly did you tell them about me?” I’m invested now, here for the details.
“I told them about the note you delivered to my room. We discussed whether or not I should meet you in the lobby since you could be a killer. They bitched at me for giving you my room number because you’re not supposed to give your number to strangers.”
“You’re not?” This is news to me. “How are you supposed to meet people these days?”
“Not in hotel lobbies, apparently.” She shrugs, taking her place on the bed next to me, scooting to the center, leaning against the headboard, and letting her hand rest inches from my thigh. “You also meet people on dating apps.”
I settle in, too, content and comfortable with her pressed against me.
“Are you on any dating apps?” Inquiring minds want to know.
“I have been in the past. Being from a small town in Wisconsin where everyone knows everyone, the dating pool is basically the same guys I went to high school with. So it gets frustrating, and there’s a lot of app burnout—which is why I decided to create my own version of a dating app. Currently, though, I’m not on any.”
Harlow seems like a great fucking catch. A nice person.
Attractive, funny. Goes with the flow.
Not to mention beautiful.
“So,” she starts in, asking me questions without hesitating. “What’s something about you that not many people know?”
“Ah—so we’re going to jump straight to getting to know each other better?”
“Only if you want.” She giggles. “No pressure.”